White as Snow
by gotellalice
Summary: After a strike and a failed investment combine to all but doom Marlborough Mills and its owner to ruin, John Thornton is desperate for a way out, but what he finds in Margaret Hale may be a worse fate after all. When brought to one's knees, it can be hard to learn to stay there. This is a somewhat dark, modern AU, focused around female dominance and combining story/sex.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: Welcome, and thanks for reading! This will undoubtedly end up a bit unlike most fics with this particular pairing and fandom, but I've been craving a story like this for awhile, and so I hope you all enjoy. There are, of course, some rather dark themes in this story, including non/dub-con and bdsm, so if you are not interested in such things or are made uncomfortable by them, this fic is not for you. If, however, you are interested in exploring a female dominant, modern work of fiction between Mr. Thornton and Ms. Hale, please do read and let me know what you think! I've never been the best at first chapters, but here we go!_

 **Chapter One: The Bargain**

John Thornton was not a man who liked to be kept waiting, but sometimes there was nothing for it. It had taken him over a week to get this appointment – a week spent hounding various staff members via telephone and email, and once even in person when he'd grown too fed up of the run-around. One would think he'd asked to meet with some foreign dignitary, rather than one of the chief officers of a law firm. In fairness, Helstone was one of the largest international legal firms in the world, a fact he was reminded of as he stepped from the elevator onto the highest floor of the imposing skyscraper. It was all marble and finely polished wood, tasteful leather chairs and expensive looking art. Amongst other textile owners John was usually overdressed, but here his finely fitted suit and crisp white shirt were all but a necessity if he didn't want to stand out. Which he almost never did.

As he sat there in that sleek, quiet lobby awaiting his scheduled meeting, the only reassurance he could give himself was that he had _not_ come begging. This was a business proposition, plain and simple… or it would be, as far as others were concerned. In fact he did not require legal services, but it so happened that the factory he operated, Marlborough Mills, used a building and plot of land owned by the COO of Helstone herself. Usually that didn't mean he ever had to see her; he simply made his checks out when they were due and signed his name. But this time was different, and it had been a devil to get in touch with the woman. She'd only just returned to the country a few days ago, sure, but it had still irked him to be made to wait when he was already pressed for time.

He narrowed his eyes at his own fingers as he noticed their drumming along his knee, and abruptly the motion stopped. Spine stiff, he forced himself to lean back in his seat, stilling himself once more. Men did not fidget, and he would not have his damnable nerves broadcast to the world. Not that there were many around to see – he was alone in the waiting room, save for a secretary typing busily away at her computer. The sound was aggravating after so long, an arrhythmic clicking punctuated by the clack of the especially loud spacebar every so often. She would pause for a moment, the sound of a paper page turning filling the silence, and then it would start all over again. He could do nothing about it, of course, but glare uselessly over at some empty corner, blue eyes dark and narrowed. How long had he been here? It was as though he was being made to wait on purpose, damned to sit here until the anticipation and the clicking drove him mad. It wasn't unusual for that handsome face to hold a frown, but this was a truly pensive look that graced those dark features this time.

For all his impatience, when the woman called his name at last his throat tightened all the same, and he managed only a nod as he rose to his feet and straightened his suit. Eyes barely glanced towards the secretary as she motioned for him to follow her through the broad doors and down the long hallway, heels loud on marble flooring. They passed by several doors, offices that grew larger and nameplates with ever more impressive-sounding titles as they continued onward. The ones that stood ajar allowed a glimpse of men and women seated at desks overflowing with paperwork, a phone at their ears and fingers at a keyboard as they spoke rapidly in all manner of languages.

The sight was oddly calming. John was a businessman, and he knew how to talk to businessmen – or to a business woman, in this case. An atmosphere of hard work and high expectations was like home for him, and it eased some of the tension from his shoulders. He'd only needed to be reminded, that was all.

That sense of ease faded dramatically as they reached his destination, the office at the very end of the hallway. _Margaret Hale, Chief Operations Officer._ John's eyes moved over the plaque briefly, and once again he had to will his fingers to still at his sides. The rap of knuckles on the door might have made him jump had he not steeled himself, and as a voice called out to admit them he took a steadying breath, shoulders squaring. His guide pushed the door open and held it for him, gesturing him inside with a nod while she remained in the doorway.

Sunlight streamed in through walls made of glass, illuminating the large, immaculate office. A spectacular view of the city from so high up served at the backdrop to a stylish yet professional workspace, like something out of a magazine. Nothing quite so obscenely splendid as one might have expected, given the generally lavish look of the whole floor, but impressive as befitted the COO of such a company. Though it was rare that he _didn't_ wear a suit, John found himself glad he'd worn the best one.

"Mr. Thornton to see you, ma'am." The secretary's voice drew the attention of the room's occupant, and suddenly bright green eyes were studying John from across the finely made desk settled against the back wall of window. A man of composure when his temper was not roused, John's face remained still even as he took in the sight of her with some surprise. Ms. Hale, he presumed, did not look quite as he'd pictured her: younger by far, for she could not have been much over thirty, and quite striking. Rich red hair framed a pale face with high cheekbones and full lips, and the aforementioned eyes which were large and inquisitive as she looked at him, meeting his cool gaze evenly.

"Ah." She stood from her chair, walking around the desk to meet John as he approached. He could not help but notice the confident way in which she moved, posture straight and self-assured. The style did not end at her furniture arrangement, he could see, and the dark charcoal of her skirt and jacket made the brightness of both the blue blouse and her own green eyes pop dramatically. She had managed to avoid a mannish appearance and yet could never have been said to look lurid for all that she maintained a bit of sensuality. Yes, she was lovely indeed, but he pushed such thoughts from his mind immediately – they would get him nowhere, and how she looked was no concern of his.

She shook his hand without hesitation and with mutual firmness, grip strong for all that her hands were soft. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Thornton," she said as their hands pulled away, his fingers fighting the urge to twitch again as he looked down at her. Glancing behind him, she gave the secretary a nod. "Thank you, Emily." A moment later, the door clicked shut behind them.

"Ms. Hale." He kept his own greeting short, following her leading hand and taking the seat across from her desk as she returned to it. His own back was straight, hands placed on his knees as he squared himself, running through his thoughts one final time. When she offered him a drink of water he refused it, and only just waited for her to make it back to her chair before he jumped into why he'd come. "I assume you've received the documents I sent over in preparation for our appointment."

For a moment he thought he saw a flicker of surprise cross her face, and then her lips twitched upwards as though she were somehow amused. She didn't give him time to puzzle over such a reaction, however; almost immediately she nodded her head, and smoothly reached into a nearby drawer to pull out a file that she placed on the desk. _Marlborough Mills_ _,_ it read across the top, and now it was John's turn to feel a bit of surprise, for it was far thicker than it should have been if it had contained only what he'd sent her.

"Indeed I did. I thank you for sending them well in advance – it gave me time to do some research of my own. Being that this is a matter of my personal finances, rather than that of the Helstone firm, the work had to be done personally, of course." She thumbed through a few of the pages, scanning them quickly as though to refresh her memory, and John spoke up while she did so.

"You'll see, then, that Marlborough Mills has been successful far beyond what initial surveys and estimates could have predicted." He leaned forward slightly, clasping his hands together as he stared directly at her, face displaying the purposeful focus of business as he began his pitch. "In the past five years we have climbed quicker and more assuredly than any other starting factory in the textile business in the nation, turning profit far earlier than had been promised. From local to statewide to now national, we have buyers committed to our product and the demand is always rising."

She was watching him closely, he could tell by the way her eyes shifted about his face as he spoke. It did not surprise him that she had the brains to accompany her looks; one did not climb as high as she had without wit and shrewdness. This was not a woman to trifle with, and he did not intend to. As he continued on about the various successes of his company's beginnings, she eventually held up a hand to stop him, and he paused to await her input.

"But?" she asked simply, raising her brow. She knew he would not be here if things had truly gone so well, and from the look on her face perhaps she knew far more than that. It was a struggle not to swallow obviously just then, but John met her gaze stubbornly. Clearly, she was keen on getting to the heart of the matter. He would not waste her time.

"Certainly you heard about the strikes." He did not quite spit that last word, but his face tightened all the same. Fingers dug a little tighter into his hands as he nodded at the document she held in her hands, familiar enough to recognize it on sight. "All of us were hit hard, but we remained firm. It lasted about a month, before things started to get ugly. After an instance in which the police had to take down some of the more aggressive strikers, it broke. Unlike some of our competitors, who were forced to close down, we were able to reopen our doors and get to catching up on the work."

"But you're quite behind on the orders, aren't you?" Ms. Hale's voice was soft as she tapped her fingers along some highlighted number, on a document she must have retrieved on her own. "And with the machines you recently purchased due to that high demand, you weren't in a place to receive such a blow to your finances kindly." Feeling his spine stiffen, there wasn't much John could do then but nod, slowly, his face creasing into a frown. He hadn't expected her to be quite so prepared, despite his insistence on not underestimating her. Clearly he had still managed to.

"And normally," she began again, cutting him off before he could reply, "that would hardly be an issue. Very little risk in extending the loan a bit to allow an obviously successful business to keep working away at that deficit. The strike was not your fault. Surely you would catch up quickly, and with so many competitors sunk by the strike, demand can only go up. One wonders, then, why you did not go to the banks to get such an extension."

His mouth was suddenly quite dry, and his grip on his own hands was bruising. The shocked glare on his face could not be hidden, and yet the woman did not so much as blink to see it. Things were very rapidly turning bad, worse than he had imagined, and still she did not wait for him to speak.

"Or I would have wondered, had I not been able to find out for myself the reason why." She slipped a page free from her neat stack of documents, and handed it across the desk to him. Numbly, his hand raised to take it, and as his eyes fell upon the words they swiftly shut in denial, mouthing a silent curse to himself. Opening them again, he found her cool stare watching him with keen attention, her hands steepling atop the desk. _She knew._

"Where did you get this?" he asked, his voice hoarse and strained with mounting anger. Of course, the answer did not matter, really. It was all for nothing. He ran a hand roughly through his hair, ruining any sense of order to it as he tried to find his calm, but it would not come. He was ruined, and any hope he'd managed to hang onto upon walking in through that door was now but a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He very nearly got up and left right then.

Ms. Hale did not answer right away, but rather seemed to note his response. Her own eyes were unreadable whereas his gave away the helpless frustration that was consuming him. She leaned back into her own seat, gaze never leaving his face. "I do not make a habit of investing without careful consideration, Mr. Thornton. It does not matter where I got it, only that I did. It is _you_ that is a liability, not Marlborough Mills."

A deep red flush rose from the collar of his freshly pressed shirt up to his face at those words, and his blue eyes were livid and icy as he stared back at her. He'd always had a temper, and now it was threatening to explode then and there, in the face of such judgment. Lips curling in a silent snarl, the scrape of his chair along the ground as he shoved back and away from the desk was loud, rising to his feet before she stopped him in his place.

"Sit." The word was a command, short and sharp and surprisingly quiet for all it cracked through the air like a whip. The tone was that of a woman used to being obeyed, and her stony demeanor did not falter at the anger radiating from him, even as it spiked in response to her demand. People did not tell _him_ what to do. So while he froze in place, rather than storming out of her office in a rage, he did not comply with the order. Indeed, had he not been so thoroughly stricken with ire, he might have snapped back at her, but as it was his mind was too clouded to formulate such a response.

Ms. Hale's own face suddenly frowned back at him, and her fingers slipped from their steeple to grip at the edge of her desk. The pale skin of her cheeks rose in color as well, as the green of her eyes darkened. "You walk out that door, this conversation is over and you can consider yourself quite simply screwed," she promised him in a voice that was far too level and calm for the content of those words. It was almost hard to hear her, what with his heart pounding so loudly in his ears. Still, the edge was betrayed by the sharpness of her gaze. "Sit down. Now."

For a moment they simply stared one another down, the room rife with tension and hostility. The muscles of John's jaw worked visibly, teeth grinding with barely suppressed anger. But she'd allowed him some hope, sliver that it was, in implying that perhaps by staying he might not be, as she put it, "screwed". He was wary at the idea that anything could overcome all that she now knew and could hold against him, but truly did not have a choice. And she knew it. Slowly, so stiffly that it seemed his very bones might crack from brittleness if he moved too quickly, he lowered himself back into his seat, hands gripping the armrests painfully hard.

She relaxed, despite his obvious remaining tension. "Thank you," she murmured, and soon turned to pour herself a glass of water, passing one to him as well no matter that he'd refused once already. Sipping, she continued their now rather one-sided discussion in that same serene tone, ignoring the document he held bunched in one fist.

"I find it very hard to believe that a man of your reputation and seeming sensibility would have been so foolish as to risk so much on speculation, Mr. Thornton." As ever, she did not beat around the bush, cutting to the very heart of what was his waking nightmare. When he did not speak, choosing instead to shift his glare out the window, she pressed him. "Tell me what happened." Another command, but this time spoken more insistently than domineeringly. It earned her a long silence, but eventually the man cracked. There was nothing for it now, anyway.

"My brother-in-law," he said flatly, and the way he paused made it sound like that might be all he had to say. After a while, he continued. "He quite convinced my sister that it was no real risk at all. That it was easy money to be made by investing. I turned him down, for I was in no state to be taking such chances. But my sister had access to the accounts as well." It seemed to exert him to get so much out, but that was all that needed to be said. The sheer fact of what had been lost was plain on that paper he held crumpled on his lap, and it had doomed him. Francine would be fine, of course – her husband had plenty to spare. She had cried when he'd found out and smashed their dining room to bits, screaming that it wasn't her fault. Not her fault that she had gambled with his money – no, the _company's_ money, and lost everything. They'd turned a profit in the last year or so, sure, but he had no way to recover from this and the strike. And it was embezzlement, plain and simple - a crime in his name. Just thinking about it made him feel dizzy, nauseated, and the angry red of his skin went pale as he drank from the water if only to save him from the dryness of his mouth.

"I see." Thornton nearly snorted at the simple statement, wondering at how that could be her only reaction to what was, to him at least such damning information. But then, she was only the owner of the building – the demise of his reputation, his business, and his own life were none of her concern, really. She would not be touched. His one hope had been that she might agree to forgo the rent on the place for quite some time: he could not go to the banks, who would discover the embezzlement immediately, and he would not throw his sister to the wolves. He was stuck, and it was only a matter of time now before the payroll was unaffordable and the authorities came for him. It had been a long shot, dependent on Ms. Hale being far less careful than the banks. Obviously, that was not at all the case.

"Well…" The word drew John from his dark reverie, icy eyes finding hers. Anger and despair were paramount in them, as well as a kind of sickness. He knew what she would say, knew it at his very core. His one shot had blown up in his face, and there was nothing he could do to save himself or the people that depended on him. His mother… one could only hope Francine would take care of her when he was gone.

"I would like to help you, Mr. Thornton." The soft words, spoken in that calm, melodious voice, took a moment to permeate the cloud of unhappiness. Blinking, John tried to refocus his attention on her.

"Pardon?" Surely she had not said what he thought she had. Or perhaps she did, but it would be followed by reasons she wouldn't. His hands clenched, irate with the thought that she might be toying with him. Ms. Hale's eyes dipped down towards those tight fists, and once again she seemed to nearly smile – which of course made them clench all the tighter.

"I have done my research on you as well. You do not oversell yourself, nor the promise of Marlborough Mills. It would be a shame, I think, for the both of you to go under over something like this, serious as it may be." She looked at him now as though appraising the worth of his very being, right then and there. As though he were for sale, and she considering what she might pay for him. He might have been unsettled to see such an expression on her lovely face, had he been able to think beyond the incredulity of being offered a lifeline amidst the sea of turmoil in which he found himself. In a manner very unlike him, he opened his mouth but could do nothing but stammer for a moment, slow to comprehend and even slower to believe.

"How?" he croaked, clearing his through in a bit of embarrassment when he heard the weakness in his voice. "And… for what price?" He wasn't stupid, and he knew the way the world worked. She had him cornered, that much was obvious, and with his only other option being jail and ruin, there wasn't much she could ask for that he would – or could – refuse. The thought was a sobering one, and his dazed stare became suspicious and guarded immediately. It was only slightly better, being at her mercy rather than simply sealed in his fate.

She smiled at him, of all things, and the expression looked genuine. It was not quite mocking, but rather impressed with him, or begrudging perhaps. At the very least, she did not play coy. Standing up, she took her time walking around her desk, sitting down atop it once she'd closed the distance between them, looking down at him.

"Here is my offer," she began, and he was suddenly aware of just how prepared she was. Clearly she had thought this through in great detail. His jaw clenched to think of how blind he had been to simply walk into this trap unknowingly, but he could not afford to let pride sink his one chance. He listened, willing himself to remain still. "You will sell me just under majority of ownership – 49%, at fifteen percent under market value. That will give you the money needed to keep your payroll secure and the payments on the new machinery going. Of course you'll not end up seeing a penny of it, but at least you won't go under. And you will remain the majority shareholder and owner of the company you've worked so hard to build. Since I will be the other partner, it wouldn't make sense for me to charge rent for the building – and of course, I shall make much more back in profits assuming things go well. What you would normally pay in rent you shall keep for yourself, and through frugality and sense you should be able to replenish what other money you have lost yourself over time, though it may be a bit lean for awhile."

John listened intently, his eyes narrowed and brow creased. To give up nearly half of his company… but it would save him, she was right. He would lose out on a great deal of money he might have earned had he not found himself in such a mess, but he would not go to prison, and not put his workers out of a job. Money would be tight for a year or two, but eventually he would recover. As he puzzled it out in his head, he said nothing, watching her expectantly. This was beneficial to her, certainly – she had a lot to gain from taking such a large share, but it would be a slow-repayment, and she was leaving him an awful lot of benefits considering what they both knew she could demand. Not one to trust in the benevolence of others, he waited silently for the other shoe to drop.

"Of course," she said, eyeing her glass as she took another sip, "I will hang onto the evidence of what you have done. Embezzlement is a serious crime, and of course even if you were to pay it all back it would be no less frowned upon should it all come to light. As the only other partner, if such a thing were to happen I would take over, seeing as I am clear of any blame. But the name would suffer, and I would be stuck with a marked business in an industry that I know nothing about." She looked back to him, drinking again as she let him process her words.

He was reeling from it all, this newest near-threat enough to make his blood run cold. It would never end, then – her ability to blackmail him. Suddenly it felt an awful lot like another type of prison sentence, and out of spite he was actually tempted to refuse her. To be this woman's pawn… he didn't know if he could bear it.

But he thought of his mother, the only person who'd ever shown him unconditional love. The woman who had slaved away for he and his sister both, and given up so much of herself to ensure they were able to succeed. He thought of the business he had built from the ground up, and the workers who depended on it to support their families. Could he damn them all, to save himself? His pride, most of all? For a moment his eyes closed, and he brought fingers up to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

He could feel her eyes on him, but she said nothing else as he brooded, struggling against what he already knew in the bottom of his sinking heart he had to do. An emptiness took hold of him as he opened his eyes and rose onto suddenly unsteady legs, determined to look her in the eye at least. Once more he was taken aback by the sight of her, fearsomely lovely now, he thought, in the midst of it all. Were those the eyes of a person he could trust not to bury him even deeper? He had no real way of knowing.

"I don't have much of a choice, do I?" It was a rhetorical question, and his voice was bitter with the defeat of it even as he put out his hand to shake hers. He'd found a way out of his troubles after all, but who could say where this path would lead?

A soft hand clasped his tightly, nearly dwarfed by his long fingers. A small smile touched those full red lips, but what it promised he did not know. "No, you don't," she agreed simply. Turning, she went back to the proper side of her desk.

"Shall we draw up the paperwork, then?"


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's note: I am truly so grateful for the welcoming reception to the first chapter of this story – I had been quite worried that few people would be interested in such a set-up, but the reviews and messages I received were wonderfully encouraging. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this, and especially those who have reviewed, followed, favorited, or PM'd me. It makes the process of writing so much easier and more enjoyable._

 _One reviewer asked to know whom I picture as this redheaded Margaret, and for me it's a young Odessa Rae. I'll link a specific photo on my profile, for anyone interested._ _John Thornton, of course, is and always will be Richard Armitage in my mind. Because who could dream up anything better? Anyhow, I hope you enjoy this second chapter, and thank you again for reading!_

 **Chapter Two: Unshakeable**

In the weeks following that fateful meeting at Helstone, John's life continued to be a blur of stress and activity. There was the legal mess to sort out, questions he did not wish to answer about why he was suddenly selling so much of his ownership to a seeming stranger. From his lawyer alone, of course – he did not bother to tell his family. The less people who knew about what sort of deal he'd struck and why, the better as far as he was concerned. It helped that Ms. Hale was herself a brilliant attorney, but then he hadn't been in contact with her in anything more than emails since their appointment. Not that she hadn't tried to, but it was simply more than he could bear at the moment.

There was also a sudden influx of money to be spread out over the vast deficits he'd incurred, and he had to work hard to keep at least some of it discrete. Though the immediate danger had passed, his ordeal was far from over. He could still be found out, if he wasn't careful, and such secrecy meant he could not delegate the work as he otherwise might have. It was stressful, and it was isolating. Though he was a man who did not typically need the company of others to feel comfortable, it nonetheless had begun to eat away at John.

His workers noticed, of course. Thornton's walks along the production lines had grown far less frequent, and when he did pass amongst them his replies had become snappish rather than simply terse in nature. They'd never gone out of their way to try and befriend him before, when he'd been merely a chilly individual, but now they actively tried to avoid him where they could. There was a visible anger to him now, darkening an already grim face, and so soon after the strike many were worried about keeping their jobs, what with so many factories closed and men desperate for work. So they kept their heads down as the owner passed by, and in private sometimes murmured worriedly to one another.

In truth John was exhausted. He could not remember the last time he'd slept soundly through the night, undisturbed by troubled dreams from which he woke panting and covered in a layer of sweat, despite the chill of the winter air. Things were not nearly so bad as before, it was true; he no longer found himself nearly smothered by the despair of his situation, now that his work and family and life were safe, for the moment. There was a lot of work left to be done, certainly, but so long as he took the time each night to sit and go over what money needed to go where to keep things running smoothly, everything would be fine. Weeks ago, it had been terrors of being found out, of inevitably running out of places to hide and options to explore that had haunted him.

Now, he dreamed of her.

It was understandable that he was concerned, of course – while Ms. Hale had rescued him from a certain doom, she had at the same time cast him into an uncertain place of vulnerability. John detested being under another's thumb in any circumstance, and with such leverage as she held over him it was all the more unbearable. He would not, could not trust her not to take advantage of the power of her position now, but it was more than that. For all that she had shrewdly and decidedly taken advantage of his helplessness and need, she _had_ saved him and those he cared about. He had never put himself in the position of needing to be saved before, and he found himself resenting her for it. It was not to say he was not thankful, but the gratitude he felt was a perverse one, tainted by a wounded pride and an awareness of the lack of security of his position.

But even still, such concerns for his future and that of his company troubled only his waking moments. At night, he was not plagued by imaginings of being blackmailed into ruin, nor even of enduring his current subjugation. It was only Ms. Hale herself that visited and disturbed his rest, night after night. In his dreams he saw her again, and once more he felt that sharp sense of vulnerability beneath her gaze. She had stared into him, almost straight through him, and not even his formidable temper and near-legendary stoniness of face had been able to drive her back. In that moment of sheer desperation, faced with the inescapable fall of everything he had worked to preserve, he had cracked as he never had before, revealing the rawness of his fear and his uncertainty. It had been his weakest moment, and in it she had seen into his very being. He'd felt that exposure keenly, and now was forced to relive it over and over again, seemingly every time he closed his eyes. Always she was there, watching him knowingly. Smiling that serene smile as he felt himself threaten to shatter there before her.

He threw himself into his work, to distract his weary mind. None of it would matter if he could not continue to drive his business to success, and so he focused all his time and energy into turning profit and mitigating waste. It was dark when he arrived at the Mill, and darker still when he left it. More than once his mother had commented on the dark circles forming around his eyes, and he had claimed to be ill, though he would not hear her insist that he go home and rest. John had not told her, not bothered to worry her with the knowledge of the catastrophe that had almost been, nor the trouble that currently was. She could read him well enough to see that there was something, but no matter how she pried he would not budge. Eventually he had snapped at her as well, and she had stopped visiting him there at the office. If it made him feel badly to have treated her thus, he did not let himself think on it much. Better that she was not around, really. He would have this sorted eventually, and he would make it up to her.

Today he was especially immersed in it all. Papers piled high upon his desk shifted steadily from one pile to another as he worked through them, stopping every so often to send off emails and inquiries and expense reports to one person or another. It was repetitive and dull, but the work soothed him. He was too tired to focus on anything other than the numbers and names before him, and such a state was preferable to useless worrying about all the things he could not control. Once in a while he would glance behind him, looking out the large glass window into the factory below, but more often than not his eyes were fixed on paper or screen.

He almost didn't hear the sound of the page on his phone line, and when he did he answered with annoyance. "Yes, what is it?" he demanded, attention still firmly on the spreadsheets before him. Likely his secretary was used to the bite of his impatience by now, especially after the last few days. Either way, he didn't complain or balk at the tone.

"A Ms. Hale to see you, sir." The words were like an electric shock to his mind, jolting it from the relative bliss of rote work. He went still as a statue for a long moment, his chest growing tight as his breathing faltered. _What on earth was_ _ **she**_ _doing_ _ **here**_ _?_ He certainly had not been expecting her.

"Mr. Thornton?" He must have hesitated too long, though it felt like he had no time at all to steady himself before making his reply. His eyes cast about the room, as though something in it would save him, and for a moment he nearly demanded she be sent away. But of course that would have been a grave mistake, and he was sensible enough even now to recognize that. Really, he didn't have much of an option.

"Send her in," he managed, pushing himself up from his seat to await her arrival. Idly he tugged his suit into place and fastened a button, looking down upon the state of his desk with a sudden wish to straighten it. The door opened before he could do more than wish, however, and suddenly he could think of little besides how much worse it was to be under her gaze in the real world.

"Ms. Hale," he said simply, unaware perhaps of how very rough his voice sounded just then. For all the trouble her eyes caused him, he could not seem to bring himself to look away from their depths. The sound of the door closing behind her nearly made him jump, and his mouth tightened into a thin line as he inwardly rebuked himself. "I was not expecting you."

"You look terrible," she said abruptly, as though he had not spoken at all. She, of course, was every bit as put-together as the last time he had seen her – the very picture of a professional woman of note. There were no shadows beneath her bright emerald eyes, no disarray to her long strands of ginger hair. Combined with her words, the sight of her served to make John bristle defensively, though there was no way he could dispute her claim, inappropriate as it was for her to have made it. Not even a "hello" or an explanation, just a remark as unapologetically blunt as her gaze was unashamedly fixated on him.

"I have been unwell," he replied dryly, letting her make of that what she would. Very purposefully he did not try to straighten himself out under her gaze, though he could tell almost immediately that she saw through his indifference. "What can I do for you?" It irked him that the words sounded so inherently subservient, but they were polite and professional and were not out of place amongst persons of equal standing, for all that the truth of the matter twisted them.

Rather than approaching the desk, or taking a seat across from it, Ms. Hale seemed content to wander the office slowly. Gazing upon the shelves of books, reaching a hand out to run her fingertips across them from time to time, she seemed to forget for a moment that he was there at all. It was a minor relief, to be freed from the sight of her staring at him, but nevertheless his feet shifted in discomfort and his forehead creased with annoyance. Who was she, to come barging in unannounced and then act like his time was of no real importance?

"You did not come to sign the papers, yesterday," she said eventually, her attention returning to him all at once. Her face was inquisitive, and her feet did not stop their movement, carrying her to the window overlooking the workers so that he had to turn himself to keep his gaze on her. Glancing out it for a moment, she then looked back at his face, eyes shifting over him in obvious curiosity. "Are you truly ill?"

"There was no need for me to come," Thornton replied flatly, trying to ignore the way her study made him uneasy. The tie about his neck felt suddenly suffocating, but he would not give so much of himself away by tugging it looser. "I signed them as you needed me to, but I am not a lawyer and we both-" he faltered, jaw flexing before he continued, "we both knew I would agree to whatever you stipulated. So I sent my own lawyer, and he assured me everything was taken care of." He tried to keep his voice as steady as possible, and did not make comment as to the state of his health. He could hardly tell her what it was that kept him up at night, after all.

Other than blinking at his rather blunt allusion to her superiority in terms of negotiating vantage point, Ms. Hale hardly reacted. But that stare, that damnable scrutiny that had permeated his dreams so effectively, never ceased. In fact, John was the one who had to turn away, unable to bear the way it made him wish to hide himself. He'd never cared what others thought or saw in him before – he wasn't sure why he'd suddenly started, but it was maddening. Disguising his breaking eye-contact as a need to resume his work, he set now anxious hands to straightening his desk after all, organizing it as though it was simply something he'd needed to get done eventually. "Is that all?"

But she wouldn't let him off so easily. The moment he felt himself able to regain a bit of his composure by directing some of his attention away, she was suddenly far too close to him. In reality, she stopped a good three feet away, but he felt her presence as vividly as though she were touching him. It was just barely not a flinch, the way his muscles seized and his back straightened suddenly as she so assuredly closed the distance between them, and immediately he looked to her face once more. There it was again – that urbane smile tilting at her lips. Was she laughing at his reaction? He was too startled in that moment to tell.

"Have dinner with me," she said before he could think to protest or question her sudden closeness. Not that he would have, right away at least. Just now, all he seemed able to process was the way he could feel the warmth radiating off of her, could smell the faintest hint of perfume. Or maybe it was just her. When his weary mind finally made sense of the words, he was dumbfounded, and yet he could do nothing but stare back at her blankly.

As usual, she continued as though it was expected that she should carry on without his input. "You look like you need it. I've already spoken to your secretary – I know you don't have other plans."

"I have work to do." They were a long time coming, but the words eventually found their way through his constricting throat, steadier than he felt. If the brusqueness of his tone bothered Ms. Hale at all, however, she did not show it.

"And you can do it tomorrow," she countered effortlessly, glancing down at his computer before finally, blessedly, stepping away from him. Back around his desk, turned away from him for a moment or two before she paused just at the door, her hand on the frame. "I insist. The fate of this business – _our_ business – depends on you, Mr. Thornton. We can't have you wasting away at your desk." She checked her watch, head tilting as she considered things.

"Seven should work. I'll leave my information with your man outside. Until then." And she was gone just as quickly as she'd come, the door shutting behind her without John managing another word. He stared at it for a moment, frozen in place, before sinking back down into his chair. A minute later, his head was in his hands, back bowed over the desk as he pressed his palms into his temples.

 _What had just happened?_ He'd have never allowed another to speak to him, _for_ him, like that. Even she, with all her blackmail and leverage against him, should not have been able to shake him so. He'd been pathetic, really – useless. Unable to think or speak up as she'd made such assumptions, presumed to be able to order him about. It shocked him, truly, to have been reduced to that so effortlessly and completely. Angered him, once the shock wore off, and his fist slammed down onto the wooden desk hard enough to rattle the things atop it. It was too much – he would not let her get to him in such a way again. He blamed the lack of sleep, the suddenness of her appearance. Next time, he would be prepared.

And as it turned out, "next time" was in fact that very evening. He looked to his own watch: it was barely past two. Plenty of time to compose himself before he joined her for dinner, which he knew was at this point non-negotiable. Resigning himself, he shut down his computer and packed his briefcase quickly, though he doubted he'd get much work done at home. It was the first time in over a month he'd left the office before nightfall, but of course everyone knew better than to question his reasons.

Sure, he could have stayed, but he could at least admit to himself that his mind was not in any state to continue working. Ms. Hale had seen to that. The best thing he could do was go home, try and catch a few fitful hours of rest before he had to ready himself to meet her. Perhaps then he'd be able to think more clearly, and school his expression effectively. At the very least, he would look better for it – less like he was stressing himself into an early grave.

The address she'd given his secretary was that of an apartment downtown – he'd have to face her in her own home. The thought was nearly enough to make him cancel, but he thought she might see that as weakness, to say nothing of rudeness. No, he would play along for now, but he would set her to rights as to how things would go from then on. She may have held all the chips, so to speak, but John Thornton did not stammer and quake before anyone. He had his pride if nothing else.

And he would show her, one way or another.

 _End note: Thanks so much for reading! I would love to hear what you think so far, and I will happily answer any questions you may have. Until next time!_


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's notes: Thank you all so much for your generous support and kind words! I hope you all enjoy this chapter, which is lengthy to make up for taking so long._

 **Chapter 3: Grasping**

Despite his earlier success at ignoring it all together, John felt as though his weariness compounded within him with every step up to his apartment. As ever, her was grateful for the solitude of the place – it was the one thing he'd been willing to spend extra on, his home, and the perks of a private entrance and hallway always made him sure that it had been the right decision. While not the fanciest of the apartment buildings in the area, this one suited Thornton just fine in its relative isolation. It was nothing to sneeze at, besides, though it was perhaps not quite as fantastic as one might expect from the business owner he seemingly was. Small, but he didn't need much space. Besides, his family owned a grand home not ten minutes from here, and had he not valued his privacy so much he could have stayed there.

Inside, it was tempting to simply walk straight to the master bedroom and collapse, but he ignored the temptation and simply tossed his jacket atop it before tugging off his tie. Was it really so early in the day? Rubbing at his face, John made for the bathroom, clicking on the light and resting his palms atop the counter.

He stared at himself in the mirror, really _looked_ at his reflection for the first time in weeks. It was startling, really – he _did_ look terrible. John had always carried the evidence of a stressful occupation in his brow, which was set in a furrow most days, but he wasn't sure he'd ever looked quite so worn down as he did now. Fingers felt along the dark circles of his eyes, scratched at the stubble that had grown long in his carelessness. It was not like him, to let himself grow so obviously haggard. Not good for business, and worse still he'd allowed Ms. Hale to see with clarity how poorly he was holding up. That would not do at all.

A slow stumble out of the bathroom brought him back to his bed, and he sank down onto the mattress with a quiet groan. First things first, he needed to sleep for a few hours. It would not erase weeks of deprivation, but it might help clear his head a bit. He could shower and shave before he left, of course. Wearily, he set an alarm on his phone before tossing it to the empty side of the bed and rolling onto his side, back facing the partially open window. He was so very tired all of a sudden, as though time had caught up with him all at once. Eyes closing, he silently hoped that his rest might go undisturbed by dreams for once.

And undisturbed it was. Perhaps it was the sudden realization of his own fatigue, or it might have been a consequence of having faced Ms. Hale already in his waking moments. Whatever the reason, John experienced no troublesome imaginings of their encounters, or if he did they at least did not wake him. He slept deeply, soundly – so much so that when he eventually did wake up, he felt disoriented. The room was dark, and besides his tie and jacket he was still fully clothed in his suit. Slowly, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, grunting at a twinge in his back: he hadn't moved at all in his sleep, and he was a bit stiff now. He was half-tempted to simply roll over and slip back into that blissful unconsciousness, but something felt… off. Hard to figure out exactly what it was, his mind sluggish from sleep, but all at once it hit him – why was it _dark?_

Fumbling for his phone in the darkness, he winced at the blinding light of the screen as he turned it on, squinting at the numbers on the clock - _10:04._ A moment passed in which he could only stare at the time, stomach sinking in dismay, before he gripped at his own hair tightly. "Shit." He'd slept through the alarm - was there nothing he could do correctly? The peaceful fog of sleep was quickly shoved aside by something near to panic, as the realization of how badly he may have erred settled in.

"Shit!" he repeated, louder, as he staggered from the bed, reeling for a second or two. She would think he had purposefully avoided her, without even bothering to call to cancel. _He had to do something._ It took him awhile to remember where he'd put his jacket, longer still to find it in the dark, but at once he began to dig through the pockets, searching. As fingers seized upon the piece of paper he was looking for, he switched on the bedroom light, blinding himself a second time.

It didn't occur to him until the line was already ringing that it may have been a bad idea to call. He was on autopilot, driven by the alarm of having accidentally slept through a meeting of importance to less thoughtful actions than was his norm. Ms. Hale had left her number along with the address, and his fingers had dialed it without stopping to think. What was he going to say?

"This is Margaret." The sound of her voice through the phone was startling, all the more so for the brief moment of doubt that had surged before it. His mouth opened, and yet no words would come out. This had been a bad idea; he should have waited for morning, should have had his secretary call hers –

"Hello?" There was a note of impatience as she spoke again, and John swallowed reflexively at the sound. Suddenly he was quite aware of his own state of being: standing in rumpled clothes, eyes bleary from the sleep and the light, mouth quite dry and heart pounding in his chest from the rush of adrenaline. He closed his eyes tightly, pinching at the bridge of his nose as he mouthed silent curses.

"Ms. Hale," he managed at last, sitting down on the edge of the bed, resigned to this mess he had made for himself. Hearing the rasp of his own voice made him pause, taking a moment to clear his throat. "This is John Thornton."

A silence on the other end made him hold his breath, though he wasn't quite sure why. Forcing himself to continue, he kept his tone as polite and professional as he could. This was business, after all. "I apologize for my rudeness. It seems I overslept, and missed our appointment. I wouldn't have called so late, only I've just now woken, and I didn't want you to think my absence deliberate." There, that wasn't so bad. It made him sound far more put together than he really felt just then, at least.

"Are you on your way?" The words derailed him completely, and he was quite glad she was not there to watch him stare at his phone in surprise. That was certainly not the reply he had been expecting… was she not angry with him? She'd dismissed his apology the way she did many things he said or tried to say, and as ever threw him off his footing.

"On my way?" he repeated, as though he had not quite heard her. She simply hummed in reply, a sound of affirmation. "Well…no." _What on earth was she on about?_ Had it been anyone else, or his mind less distracted, the reply would have been scornful and sharp. "It's quite late."

"Yes," she agreed readily, but by tone it did not sound as though she thought that was the problem he did. He imagined he could hear her customary smile in her voice as she continued, twisting his words. "You _are_ quite late. So you'd probably better leave now."

As was his typical reaction to being at a loss for too long, John felt himself heat at the assertiveness in her tone. He was reminded of just what he'd hoped to accomplish at this dinner, before. "Ms. Hale," he sighed, and there was tangible annoyance in her name. Still, he kept his tongue civil for all that his tone was firm. "I apologize for the inconvenience I've caused you, but we'll have to reschedule for another time." He could not imagine why she would even suggest that he still come – perhaps she had things she wanted said, but could they not wait?

There was another pregnant pause, but this time he would not be driven to speak first. He waited her out, though at one point he checked to make sure she was even still there. Several seconds ticked by, and then he heard her sigh in turn. "I don't think so," she breathed at last, all airy self-assurance and dismissal. John's grip tightened on his phone, his body going rigid as he hesitated. So it was going to be like this. He could hear the implications in her words, and his lips pressed together into a hard line as a wave of anger rolled through him.

"I see," he all but growled, voice quieter by degrees but fraught with tension. "So you… _insist,_ then?" The emphasis was clear, as was a mounting resentment. His teeth ground roughly together as he heard her scoff a laugh on the other end of the phone.

"Goodness, how quickly you jump to that!" Ms. Hale seemed amused by his ire, rather than rebuked. "Mr. Thornton, I'm a very busy woman, and you have proven less than enthusiastic about cooperating. By the time we reschedule, you'll have run yourself into the ground, and I will be most inconvenienced if I must take the reins of the Mills myself." How cavalierly she treated the idea, though she seemed quite certain of it being all but inevitable. When she received only a stony silence in response, she sighed loudly. "Come. Have a drink with me. Don't you think you owe me that, after ruining my evening plans?"

"I didn't…" John let out a grunt of exasperation, gripping at his hair once more. So she wasn't bullying him with her leverage concerning the company – that at least was a relief. But she did not seem to be above other forms of manipulation, and at this point he was forced to either be quite rude (which normally would not have bothered him) or give in to her demands. Either response could set a dangerous precedent, he knew, but he was no longer sure which one would be worse.

He checked his watch one more time. It was nearly 10:30 now – had they really been arguing so long? At least he didn't feel so dreadfully tired now, blood roused by the exchange Perhaps he _should_ just get this over with now. He certainly didn't want her to have more ammunition for future discussions, after all.

"Fine. I'll leave now." With that clipped resignation, he hung up the phone so as not to hear her smiling, gloating tone. It was a small victory, even if once again she was getting her way. That she was so obviously confident in her ability to do so was beyond aggravating, but then he had yet to prove her wrong. This would be the last of it, though. After this, he would not be so easily brought to heel.

Resolving to make her regret demanding his presence, John headed to the bathroom to make himself at least passably decent, but he was no longer in the mood to shower or shave so that she might think him put together. Obviously, by now she knew better than to believe that. Now his foremost motivation was spite, and so he did not even bother to change from his rumpled shirt before donning his jacket once again, leaving the tie behind. If she wanted him to go through the pointless trouble of coming over in the middle of the night, he would give her his barest minimum.

He did not dally – in only minutes he was in his car, driving down nearly empty city streets as the robotic voice guided him to her address. Earlier he'd planned to take a cab, but it was hardly worth the trouble at this hour. It would give him an excuse not to have more than one drink, and he could be gone whenever he felt so inclined. Making this as quick and painless as possible was paramount, and the sooner he got there the sooner he could leave.

It took only a quarter of an hour or so, and then he was pulling in to the garage. The building, of course, was exactly the sort of place he'd imagined a woman like her calling home. Tall, imposing, and clearly upper-class; he had to give his name to a security guard to get inside, and his practical choice in vehicle was decidedly out-of-place amongst the mechanical wonders parked in the reserved spaces. Not that John much cared – he'd worked hard for everything he had, and did not base his self-worth on such things as expensive, unnecessary cars or the like.

Inside he found a massive, mostly deserted lobby, and he dealt with the doorman, who also seemed to be expecting him. When the man insisted upon taking him up to the floor, John did not try to hide his irritation, but spent the elevator ride in stony silence. It was rare that he ever felt much like making small-talk, and now was certainly not one of those times. In the face of such a grim, handsome yet clearly frosty individual, the other wisely kept mostly quiet himself. Up and up they went, and the higher they climbed the more Thornton's mood soured. As though each passing floor was a personal affront to him, another badge of arrogance to hang on Ms. Hale's mantle.

Finally he was left alone outside her door – the only one on this floor. Of course it was. The simmering irritation transferred into the sharp rapping of his knuckles on the wood, and John did not try to school his expression before the door opened. She had dragged him all the way over here against his will, so she could deal with his obvious displeasure as far as he was concerned.

She did not seem at all surprised by the look of him, at least not the heat in his eyes. As the door swung open to reveal her, Ms. Hale looked determined to provide the sharpest contrast possible between them: her formal jacket and skirt had been replaced with dark jeans and a simple green top, and she positively grinned to see him. Casual or not, she looked a far sight better than he did, in his tousled grey button-down with his hair half wild from running his hands through it. That annoyed him, too, but he found himself reluctantly set back by the smile. For once, it did not seem to be directed at making light of him.

"My word, Mr. Thornton, did you _walk_ here?" From the way her eyes dipped over him briefly, taking in his appearance, it could have been a remark about his disheveled appearance or perhaps a complaint of the time it had taken him to get to her. Either way, the glare that had faltered returned full-force, making her eyes gleam as she caught sight of it.

"You need a drink," she affirmed, taking a step back and pushing the door open wider. "Please, come in." She ushered him inside and shut the door behind him, giving him a moment to look around at her home. Tastefully decadent, he decided; a place that neither hid nor grossly boasted of wealth. He had only a moment to look about – eyes casting over the fine hardwood floors, the various paintings lining the hallway – before he startled at the feel of her hands upon him. She was only taking his coat, but the touch had surprised him, and his head snapped around to look down at her.

"Allow me," she said with a cheerful politeness, though she had not waited for his assent. John tried to ignore the way his body repressed a shiver as she pulled the jacket from his shoulders, skin tingling. His own reaction was as surprising as the motion itself, and as she turned away to hang his coat on the rack he rubbed a palm over where she had touched him. He quickly chalked it up to the shock of it, and merely shook the distraction from his head as she turned back around.

"I went ahead and reheated some food for you – I'm guessing you never did end up eating anything for dinner." Ms. Hale was, it seemed, quite content to carry a conversation single-handedly; John had not spoken a word since he'd gotten there. At the mention of food, he suddenly felt a bit faint. He had not realized until now, thanks to the many distractions and the rush of the last hour, but he was famished. Surely he'd had something for lunch, though he could not quite recall it just then. His host took his expression for confirmation, and beckoned for him to follow her down the hallway.

"I'll just bring it out here. Make yourself comfortable," she called over her shoulder, leaving him in what looked to be her living room. A surprisingly comfortable space, for all that the furniture was clearly expensive and the carpet so plush that it swallowed up all sound of his footsteps. It was a lot of space for one person, but then someone like Ms. Hale likely did a lot of entertaining.

Having not expected to be left alone, John felt unsure of just what to do. Apparently it would not simply be a quick drink before he ran back out the door. Somehow it had not occurred to him that he, at least, might still have dinner. He looked only briefly at the sofas with their cushions, opting instead to walk to the window overlooking the balcony. A fine view, though not quite so spectacular as the one from her office. Watching the glittering lights of so many unseen people in their cars and homes, each with his or her own life to live and problems to face, he let himself detach somewhat from the current moment. It was an odd habit of his, watching others go about their day to day with a sort of awareness of each one's unique trials. Without knowing why, he found that it soothed him.

The clinking of silverware on a plate brought him back to the present, announcing Ms. Hale's return to the room. Turning, his eyes fixated at once on the food, inhaling instinctively until the scent of delicately spiced duck filled his senses, stomach clenching painfully with desire. He was starving.

But soon his eyes found hers, and the hunger was replaced with faint embarrassment as he realized she was all but waiting on him. Not that she seemed to mind – she held the plate and cutlery with no sign of annoyance or disapproval, only a faint gleam of pride as she witnessed his ravenous stare. Still, it was impolite, and while he did not lose any sleep over harsh words or attitudes in business practice, his mother had raised him with manners where being a guest was concerned. Thankfully, she let him tug the dinnerware from her hands, smiling in clear amusement as he then simply stood there awkwardly, unsure of where he was supposed to sit.

"Grab a seat wherever you like, and I'll get you a tray table. Unless you'd like me to just stare at you from across the dining room table, of course." The thought seemed to amuse her still more, and she made her way over to the bar set in the corner of the room, backed against the kitchen. She didn't ask him what he wanted, but instead simply poured them both a glass of wine as John shifted to one of the sofas, the oddness of it all starting to set in. Once again he seemed to have miscalculated, and while he was not so much a curmudgeon as to complain about _dinner_ he was nonetheless growing more and more wary as his sense of control slipped away.

She returned with a collapsible table and his glass, arranging both in front of him with less ceremony and more ease than John could have faked if he'd tried. Was this normal, for her? Perhaps it really was that nothing shook her from her calm, or at least her pretense of it. His suspicious gaze must have been sharp enough for her to feel, for suddenly she turned her head to look at him, studying his face for a moment before raising one brow in question. John was not used to having his stare met so evenly.

"Is everything alright?" All at once her expression seemed to shift from amused confidence to something like concern, and the change was startling. The laughter fled from her eyes, which now moved over him as though she were searching for some clear, visible wound. It softened her, somehow, the lack of that quick wit –physically and otherwise – though her gaze was no less penetrating for it. Softness didn't seem to make her uncomfortable either, whereas it deeply unsettled John to see such open consideration written in her features. That was not something he typically received nor gave, and from such a person as Ms. Hale it was doubly disconcerting.

"Everything's fine," he replied somewhat curtly, his words and tone shortened by the discomfort she caused by looking at him that way. He focused his attention on his food in order to ignore it. Could she not look at him without seeming to stare _into_ him?

For once, Ms. Hale said nothing, but after a pause simply moved to retrieve her own glass before seating herself at the other end of the sofa. He couldn't see her face, but still John imagined a tangible skepticism. Feigning obliviousness to the obvious rudeness in waiting so long to speak only to come out with such a terse starter, Thornton set about eating the meal she'd brought for him, intent on getting through it as quickly as could be managed so he could leave. His first bite made his eyes close briefly in spite of himself, and for a moment he could only wonder whether she had or was a cook. He was famished, certainly, but beyond that the food was delicious even reheated. It was enough to occupy his attention for a good while, his mood lifted considerably as the dull ache in his stomach was eased.

Soon, though, the silence became perturbing, with only the scrape of metal on ceramic filling the space. He'd never been made uncomfortable by silence before, but it was felt much more keenly for the way it had been so entirely absent from their interactions before. Was she just sitting there, watching him? The way he stubbornly kept his face angled away made it impossible to tell, but he thought he could feel her eyes on him. Perhaps he'd upset her with the clipped response he'd given, but whatever the cause it was strange for her to be silent in light of how normally… chatty he found her. Combined with the oddity of sitting in her home, just the two of them, so late at night and with only him eating, and it was enough that he was persuaded to break the tension himself.

"This is delicious. Thank you," he remarked in the quiet, polite tone that was as close to agreeable as he usually managed. For him it was an apology of sorts, for having failed to be a very good guest up until that point. Whatever else she might be, Ms. Hale had been a gracious host thus far, and he would not paint himself mannerless by continued failure to be thankful. Turning his eyes to her, he found she was indeed simply watching him from across the couch, with something of a brooding tinge to her own stare. She smiled though, faintly, at his thanks, and it seemed to ease her out of whatever she'd been mulling over.

"You're quite welcome," she answered, taking another sip of her wine as she pulled one leg up beneath her on the sofa. They were a contrast of postures: his straight and poised as he ate, and hers relaxed and lounging in an almost feline sort of way while she observed him. Another silence ensued, though at least John felt less in the wrong returning to his eating now, for all that he was ever more aware of the fact that she was watching. Ms. Hale seemed content to let him shift beneath her gaze, and each time his eyes darted back towards her she didn't try to hide the fact that she was looking at him.

Eventually, she rose again, disappearing only briefly before returning with the bottle of wine. John opened his mouth to protest her refilling his cup, but she began speaking before he could utter a word. "Do you feel any better?" she asked, the wine pouring into his glass and then hers without asking, and despite the way he'd reached to stop her. There was a knowing air to her smile, and John frowned at the latest refusal to hear his opinion.

"I feel less hungry," he answered her with customary honesty and complete lack of graciousness. A frown at his glass was a silent rebuke for how full she made it, and he pointedly did not reach to take another drink.

"You look even worse than before." As ever, Ms. Hale refused his rather blatant attempts to shut down conversation, and was as ever unruffled by his attitude. Lifting her own glass, she studied him over the top of it as she sank back into her seat and drank deeply. "Am I really such terrible company?"

 _Was she?_ Certainly she was far more aggravating than just about anyone John was made to spend time with, but other than her persistently amused and undeterred attitude she hadn't actually done anything _wrong._ It was simply a fact that John was not the type to seek others out for companionship. He had work to do, after all.

"It's late, and as you've said I am in need of sleep." Finished with his food, he let the silverware rest atop the empty plate, and turned his pale eyes on hers. Willing her to take him more seriously than she had. "If I look worse, certainly it's from the weariness of being out when I should be at home, asleep."

"You don't need sleep," Ms. Hale retorted with almost a scoff, as though the idea were absurd, and the sound made John's hands ball into fists. "Well, you do, but more than that you need to _relax._ Is sleep the only time you manage that, Mr. Thornton?"

"I don't see how that's any concern of yours." The words were flat, cold, and utterly unapologetic, as was the stony look he maintained even as her eyebrows lifted. She seemed surprised by the words, and that gave him some satisfaction at least. It was better than that almost malicious amusement at his expense, and it gave him the drive he needed to push back. "In fact, I'm certain it's none of your business at all, what I do in my free time. I'll thank you not to pretend otherwise."

He rose from his seat, plate in one hand and still-full glass in the other. A stiff tilt of his head towards the kitchen indicated his intent before he stalked off, disregarding her entirely as she stared at him with narrowed eyes. Eventually he heard her start to follow him, but he did not turn back around. If she was going to continue to prod him and ignore what were hardly subtle hints that he wished to be left alone, he would be more direct. He would hardly be made to feel guilty over being driven to such words.

The kitchen was expansive and utterly immaculate, but John was hardly in the mood to admire it. Brusquely he rinsed and scrubbed at his plate in the sink, with the haste of a man who cannot wait to be elsewhere. Ignoring her presence behind him entirely, he focused on this last act of chilly politeness. He had fulfilled his end of this ridiculousness, and now it was time to leave.

"Enough."

The word – and more so its angry tone – caused him to turn, wine-glass only half poured down the sink and still clutched in his hand. Almost immediately he tensed to see how close she was to him, those blazing green eyes seeming abnormally large due to their proximity. Inches away, she glared up at him with ire that had replaced shock and amusement both, her scowling face framed by flame-red hair. _How had he not felt the heat of her until she spoke?_ She seemed to radiate it, and suddenly his own skin felt quite cold in comparison.

"What is your _problem?"_ She all but spat the words in his face, her breath hot and sweet from the wine. The sheer fury took him ever further aback: he'd been blunt, but she was nearly shaking. Surely it had not warranted this? He'd never seen her lose her calm before, and she seemed almost unrecognizable in her anger.

"Where do you -" she prodded him in the chest with two fingers, hard enough that he instinctively recoiled into the counter behind him, hand raising to push hers away "get off, you – you…" For the first time she stammered, seemingly unable to find the words in her frustration. And John, who had a volatile temper himself, was in that moment just as lost. _Where did_ _ **he**_ _get off?_ She was the one bullying him about at every chance, and now she was erupting at the first sign of backbone?

But he didn't, almost _couldn't_ match her the heat of her outburst, no matter what the voice of indignation seemed to shout from the back of his mind. Instead he seemed to fold beneath that white-hot anger, shaken where he would usually have been goaded. Like the silence before, it seemed so much more intense in the stark contrast with her usual calm and humorous attitude, and something about the way those penetrating eyes smoldered with such rage made him want to turn away from it, to shield himself rather than lash out in turn.

He wasn't sure when it changed.

One moment Ms. Hale was staring at him as though she might strike him, breathing heavy and skin flushed. Then her eyes lowered from his, just a quick dart down to his chest and then back up again. Fixating, it seemed, on lips that had parted but failed to utter any sort of rebuttal. In that instant, his own uncustomary shrinking back changed to fascination, as her pupils seemed to swallow up the green of her irises.

To say he had not been expecting the warmth of lips on his own was an understatement. He had barely a second to react to her sudden lunge forward, and then the smell and taste of wine were all he could register. And the heat. God, the _heat_. Like he'd stepped out of the shade into the summer sunlight, only it was all concentrated in his lips, his chest, the back of his neck…

The sound of glass shattering made him jump, and suddenly his mind came hurtling back to active consciousness. To awareness of her lips, soft and full and firm, moving against his stunned and motionless ones. Her fingers gripped at him, one hand fisting in his shirt as the other slid up the back of his neck to twine in his hair. She pressed him backwards, the edge of the counter digging into the small of his back, pinning him between the cold granite and her warmer, softer body. Even aware, his own form was hardly under his direct control – instinctively he gripped at her as well, but the hands that swiftly took hold of her upper arms did not yet push her away. Nor did they pull her closer; they held onto her tightly, as though to anchor him there that he might ground himself. For a moment, a brief moment, his mouth moved against hers, timid and entirely driven by reflex.

And then he jerked his head back, yelping at a sudden and sharp sinking of teeth into his lower lip. He stared down at her with wide, uncertain eyes, all at once quite aware of the pounding of his own heart. As if he wasn't already scrambling to make sense of it all, now there was pain and the taste of copper in his mouth combining with the chaos of everything else. Faced with her grin, smug and somehow… sinister… John could only blink and pant, suddenly unable to get enough air into his lungs to calm them.

"John." The sound of her name made him startle just as the breaking glass had, and he couldn't fathom why that seemed to make her smile all the wider. "Let go of me."

He hadn't noticed the way his grip on her had tightened, fingers digging into her pale skin painfully tight. They released her in an instant, obeying without question, and for a moment or two his eyes stayed locked on the deep red imprints he left there on her, darkening with every second.

When her hands slid off of him, though, he remembered what had happened. Dimly he felt the sting in his scalp where she'd tugged on his hair, the soreness in his chest where her knuckles had pressed. But most of all, he tasted her on his lips, mingled with the blood. She had kissed him. Bitten him, too, but that was likely in response to the way he had begun to grip her bruisingly tight, not on purpose but punished all the same. The thoughts flowed now like sand through fingers, slipping through before he could fully come to grasp them, but at least some of it was starting to settle.

Ms. Hale watched him for what felt like minutes, but was only seconds at most. He watched her lick at her own lips, whisking away the tiny speck of his blood that remained there, before she glanced at the ground. Without thinking he followed her gaze, noticing for the first time the pool of red at their feet. It startled him for a moment – he hadn't lost _that_ much blood, had he? No, it was wine and shattered glass on the tile. He'd dropped his cup, he realized sluggishly.

Again, he did not stop to think. He simply grabbed a towel that hung on a rack beside them, and dropped to a crouch. Mopping up the mess, at least the one he could understand just then. Dully, he noted that Ms. Hale's feet were bare, and for a moment he wondered – worried, even – if she'd been cut. It didn't look like she had, but he couldn't know for sure.

"John." His name again. He glanced up at her, suddenly aware of their respective positioning. She was frowning down at him, and yet she didn't look entirely displeased. Firm, perhaps. "Leave it. I'll take care of this. You should go home."

Home. The idea struck him, knocked him a bit loose of the haze he felt himself in. Yes, that was what he needed. He'd been trying to do that all along. He left the towel there, forgotten just as suddenly as he had seized it, and rose to his feet. Walking, not staggering somehow, out of the kitchen, he couldn't help but glance back at her, eyes still wide and unsure. They met hers, briefly, but Ms. Hale did not follow him to the door. Instead she simply offered him a small, strange smile, before assuming his place on the floor, cleaning up the glass and the wine he'd left behind. As though she'd forgotten him.

His shoes on the carpet left faint pink imprints for the first few steps, but John hardly noticed. His fingers fumbled at his jacket as he pulled it from the hanger, but he didn't even wait to pull it on before hurrying out the door. He needed to get out, out and away. But on the other side of the door, all he could do was stand there, those clumsy fingers raising to touch against his lip, swollen and cut.

 _What the hell had just happened?_

 _Author's Notes: As always, I appreciate you taking the time to read! Please leave a review and tell me your thoughts just far – it is so encouraging to get feedback! Until next time._


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